


Dependence

by Miss Hiraya (Miss_Hiraya)



Category: SB19 (Band)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Gen Fic, Ken-centric, Team as Family, happy birthday bby ken, no plots I suck at those, ot5 feels, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Hiraya/pseuds/Miss%20Hiraya
Summary: "His hands shake. It does not happen often, even rarely does it betray his learned calm now, but it still happens sometimes. His hands shake now like he's just twenty, leaving his comfort for gamble with only a ticket and a bag of clothes on his back."- Ken might be dependent.
Relationships: Felip Jhon Suson | Ken & OT5
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	Dependence

**Author's Note:**

> The HSH self-made video wrecked me with OT5 feels I could not contain. And no matter how I'm insecure with my writings, I will always want to try to write their beautiful bonds.
> 
> Belated happy birthday to the real bunso of the fam, kenken!

His hands shake. It does not happen often, even rarely does it betray his learned calm now, but it still happens sometimes. His hands shake now like he's just twenty, leaving his comfort for gamble with only a ticket and a bag of clothes on his back.

His hands shake now. And it reminds him of the time when he's done everything to make the nerves go away, fingers disagreeing in straightening themselves after a fervent prayer. He blew hot air between clasped palms, cracked his knuckles from thumb to pinky twice, ran his hands through his hair, brought them between his thighs. Someone called his name then, and he remembered sputtering an answer, thankful that someone had opened the door for him when he entered the studio that smelled of spring dreams and blooming ambitions. It's only when he finished the last step, mind bright and clear of anything except the rhythm that he let himself be possessed, that he realized his hands stopped shaking.

For a long while, his hands shook more often back then. They struggled under the repeated exercises that did not seem to make sense before, complained when the instructors insisted he be more flexible, conveyed his numerous stage frights and thrills, and they seemed to tremble like the rest of his body when he is exhausted from either braving cold morning showers, or late nights when tears did not come but still his soul demanded to heave in silence.

For a long while too, they stopped by themselves. When the first beat dropped and he automatically moves, every anxiety and thought drifts away like they were never there. When he is passed out enough for the next morning. When he is alone, and he finally gets his shit together in time.

His hands shake now. But there's a distinct set of footsteps that he hears and soft breaths fluttering near his bowed head. There's an annoying ruffle to his hair that he just had perfected earlier, and there's quiet laughter when he grunts in retaliation. There is a hand on his shoulder that pretends not to notice the tremors underneath the perfectly-fitted coat, and there's a certain kind of heat one could only feel when they're trapped and crowded.

(It took a long time for his body to stop reacting to that heat as something suffocating. Now that he is better at accepting those sensations along other things, he lets his muscles relax under the grip and their presence.)

There are hands next to his. Two of them are sweating buckets. One of them is awfully small compared to the rest but it was also the strongest. One of them is steady and pale, calloused on his palms and slightly hairy on the backside. One of them is slender and soft and large like it hadn't worked for a single dime in its life, but shakes with nerves all the same. One of them is cold, awfully so, but it's almost always the first one that reaches out to trace the stubborn muscles to relax. Theirs are solid ontop of his shaky hands and under his palms where he feels thumbs ease his whirlwind of thoughts. 

Sweaty, cold, jittery, steady, calloused and soft- they make his hands stop shaking. He suppresses a smile then, deletes the thought of how dependent he is becoming on that set of hands anchoring him with something not unlike the feeling when he blows his breath into his own palms or cracks his own knuckles- but better.

Instead, he thinks of many more instances that his hands will continue to quiver for many reasons. He thinks of the dreaded times his hands will have to brush away tears from people whose hands had repeatedly held him from breaking apart. He thinks of the many more laughters he will hear when they are close, and the hands that bat at his arms are both jesting and fond. He thinks of the times he will have to feel each shiver brought by surprise, excitement and fatigue, through fingers laced unto his and palms facing his own.

He thinks of the many times he will have to endure their heat for a long time, their weight, and their stubbornness to keep him from drifting away like foam to the waves of the sea.

Because one day, he knows those hands will be the same ones he will feel on his back, when their feet will reach different paths branching from the road they took together. The heat of their palms will remain on his back, reminding, pushing, bidding all the good luck and farewell without so many words.

His hands shake. And yes, they will continue to shake every now and then, as the road ahead changes and its slope tilts upwards to the rocky summit.

That is okay. He has theirs to calm him down, lead him, guide him, reassure and push him. And even then, even when time comes that they will not be able to hold hands anymore he knows he will still have them- the sweaty, cold, jittery, steady, calloused and soft hands- his brothers until the end.


End file.
